tall clover farm

Each year I wonder if, when or where I’ll cross paths with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps in a person, sometimes in a moment, always when I least expect it, the spirit of the season will reveal itself.  Usually as an observer, a bystander to generosity, whimsy or a simple act of kindness, I tuck the memory away like a fondly held Christmas card. But this year the spirit had a more direct approach, arriving early and in a pickup truck.

Last Sunday, as Boz & Gracie lured me downstairs with their ramped up barks, I could see a tall constitution of a man peering through my front door window.  A friendly smile told me it was my neighbor, Dan.  I’m chainsaw-challenged and most of my firewood is green and not split. Dan, a keen observer and a man of few words, pointed to the dry, split firewood in his pickup and said, “Merry Christmas, Tom. “ The spirit of Christmas overwhelms quickly and tends to leave its beneficiary tongue-tied. Add a bundle of pencil-thick kindling to the mix, and I am without words.  Yes, the spirit of Christmas knocked on my door that day, and in the process reminded me that it’s a regular visitor.